


Acuteness of Desire

by Mara



Category: The Secret Adventures of Jules Verne
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-24
Updated: 2008-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:23:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1636274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mara/pseuds/Mara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phileas and Jules, left to their own devices, visit noted painter Simeon Solomon. Uncomfortable times ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acuteness of Desire

**Author's Note:**

> Written for eotu

 

 

Phileas stepped out of the hackney after Jules, wondering again why exactly he wasn't at home, ensconced in front of a fire, reading the day's paper, instead of preparing to visit the home of one of Jules's innumerable artistic acquaintances.

Then he reminded himself he had at least one excellent reason: Because Passepartout was gallivanting about with Rebecca in the Aurora on some idiotic mission for Chatsworth, leaving the fireplace cold and the newspaper unironed. Phileas tapped his cane impatiently as they stood in the doorway at 22 Charles Street in a not-entirely-unfashionable area of central London.

Jules turned slightly. "You didn't have to come," he said, sounding exasperated.

"Every time we let you wander about London, you manage to get kidnapped. I thought I would save myself the trouble of having to chase you down."

"Not _every_ \--" But Jules was interrupted by the door opening, to reveal a slight man nearly dwarfed by his dark beard.

"Shalom, Simeon," Jules said as the other man clasped his hand.

"Shalom, Jules," Solomon said, with a smile that was obviously for the awkward pronunciation. "Now introduce me to your friend." His eyes flickered over Phileas, one eyebrow raised.

"Simeon, this is Phileas Fogg. He's gotten me out of some awkward situations. Phileas, may I introduce Simeon Solomon."

"Pleased to meet you." Solomon put out a hand and Phileas shook it, automatically noting the firm grasp and calluses of an artist. It took him an instant longer to realize it might take some effort to _retrieve_ his hand.

Solomon grinned at him, finally letting go. "Be welcome to my home." He stepped back, gesturing them inside.

Jules was carefully not laughing. So carefully, in fact, that Phileas considered smacking him with the cane as they walked in. On the other hand, since this visit seemed unlikely to be as tiresome as he had expected, perhaps he'd spare Jules. This time.

Phileas followed the other two men down a short hall and into a bright sunlit room that was obviously Solomon's workshop. Or whatever it was that painters called it. The place reeked nearly as badly as Passepartout's workshop on the Aurora, and Phileas took a deep breath so his nose would get used to the smell of paint and turpentine.

Solomon and Jules were already babbling about something that sat on an easel, so Phileas looked around for a flat surface, finally dusting a stool off and settling himself on it.

A conversation on new formulations of oil paint left Phileas bored, but the name Swinburne caught his attention.

"Algernon Swinburne?" Phileas said, turning to face them.

"Yes, he's a friend," Solomon said. "Have you read his work?"

"I did read his latest, _Chastelard_."

Jules's eyes widened. "And what did you think?"

"I thought it was the most pretentious piece of garbage I've ever read. Courtly love, indeed." He snorted. "Ridiculous twaddle. And yet somehow morbid as well."

Jules drew in a breath and looked at Solomon, who considered Phileas for a moment before breaking into a broad grin. "I should dearly love to see you say that to Algernon himself. Well, you are certainly not a man who holds back his opinions."

"Indeed." Phileas inclined his head.

Jules said something under his breath that Phileas didn't catch, but that made Solomon give him an odd look. "It's like that, is it?"

"What?" 

Solomon ignored the startled expression on Jules's face to turn back to Phileas. "You don't strike me as the type to choose Swinburne for his daily reading."

"I'm not. Several ladies of my acquaintance insisted and it was easier to read it than argue with them."

That got a smile from Jules. "That explains it."

"Explains what, may I ask?"

"Why you were so willing to come with me today. With Rebecca gone, you're utterly bored. And trying to avoid Lady Hallett and her friends."

Phileas bowed slightly from his perch. "Guilty as charged. On both counts."

"This Rebecca," Solomon said, "your wife?"

"Cousin, in fact."

"Ah."

Phileas narrowed his eyes at Solomon, but the man just turned to Jules and asked him a question about Burne-Jones's latest efforts.

* * *

Phileas wandered around the room, examining paintings and drawings in various stages of completion. A sketch lay by the window, as if the artist had been studying it in the light. 

Phileas paused and considered the man and woman apparently being forcibly separated, the man's lips pressed to the woman's forehead. Neatly printed words by the figures drawing them apart showed the woman being removed by death, and the man held in place by love.

The look was classical, not overwrought, but Phileas turned his head, disturbed, and continued on.

In a corner were sketches that appeared to be Biblical scenes. There was no question, Phileas decided, that the man had talent. His figures were certainly as lifelike as any in the exhibits Jules or Rebecca had escorted him to, and the features very Semitic. Which seemed sensible, considering the subject matter.

He meandered around the easel to view Solomon's latest work, and stopped in his tracks, eyebrows raised. A couple walked toward the viewer, the woman turning the man's head to face her, even as the man's other hand clasped a young man behind him in a most indelicate fashion. A young man who bore an odd resemblance to Jules Verne.

Solomon's lips quirked. "Do you like it, Mr. Fogg? I call it 'The Bride, Bridegroom and Sad Love.'"

"I think it's brilliant," Jules said. "It truly brings to light an issue that most painters dare not address so directly."

Phileas dragged his eyes away, turning to stare at Jules. "I should think not."

"And why shouldn't I address it?" Solomon asked, no longer looking amused. "It's an open secret in London, certainly. Can you tell me you've not heard of the molly houses? Perhaps visited one yourself?"

"The what?" Jules asked.

Phileas ignored him. "That's not a topic I wish to discuss with anyone, certainly in front of Verne."

Solomon laughed. "Living in the Parisian world he does, I can assure you he's likely seen more than you have. Perhaps even experienced it." He put his arm casually around Jules's shoulders, drawing him close, the meaning unmistakable. 

Phileas saw a red tide wash over his vision and he turned neatly on his heel, unable to bring himself to utter a word or even take another breath in this house. He was out the door before either Jules or Solomon could react, the wind buffeting his face a relief from the heat flooding his face.

* * *

By the time he was halfway to the West End, Phileas could hear Jules's hurried steps behind him, nearly running, but Phileas didn't slow his pace.

"Fogg! Slow down, damn it!"

Phileas gritted his teeth until he thought they might break, counting from one to one hundred, then counting backward.

"Fogg!" Jules yelled from right behind him, grabbing his arm.

It was the final straw. Phileas dropped his cane and whirled with all the finely trained reflexes of the deadly fighter he was, freeing his arm, then grabbing Jules by the shoulders and flinging him against the nearest wall. 

Gasping for breath, Jules slumped down, staring at Phileas with an expression of betrayal, which Phileas ignored, using Jules's collar to push him back up against the brick. "Only four years since, you and your artist friend would have been _hung_."

Phileas wanted a weapon. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do with it, but it would make him feel better to have a sword or pistol in his hand.

"Simeon and--"

"Now if the two of you aren't discreet, you won't be hung, just imprisoned for life." He gave Jules a shake, hoping to knock some sense into him.

"We--"

"They won't indulge your little artistic whims in prison, let me assure you. And they certainly won't be able to protect you from the League."

"Fogg!" Jules grabbed Phileas's arm, digging his fingers in. "Will you _listen_ to me?"

Phileas dropped his grip and took a step back, trying to get his breathing under control.

"Simeon and I are not...we haven't..." Jules's face was so red, it looked like he might explode. "Simeon just enjoys teasing."

Phileas felt his own face pale and he took another step back. "Ah."

"I mean, he is...but not with me."

Phileas's mind was awhirl with emotions so complex he couldn't sort them out. Relief was obvious, since of course his concern had been Jules's safety...right?

"Fogg?"

Bending to pick up his cane gave him an excellent excuse not to face Jules. "I'm going home." 

"Wait."

Phileas wished Jules were capable of letting anything go, but he paused midstep, curious.

"I'm not the innocent you obviously consider me, you know."

And that brought forth images Phileas most certainly did not wish to _ever_ consider again. It was fortunate, he thought distantly, that he had fast become an expert at ignoring (if not forgetting) things that disturbed him.

"Fogg?"

"I said I'm going home." Phileas strode down the street and around a corner. With a wave, he flagged down a hackney and briefly thought about leaving Verne behind. But somehow that would just lead to a kidnapping and more trouble than he cared to deal with this afternoon. He left the door open.

Jules peered in tentatively.

"Oh get in. I won't hit you." Again, he thought with a sigh.

For a moment it looked as if Jules would leave, but in the end, he climbed in beside Phileas and they rode in silence to the townhouse.

* * *

"It's not fair," Jules said suddenly as they alighted from the hackney.

Phileas frowned as he paid the driver and led the way to the front door.

"Simeon is so talented, but some works can't be displayed because--"

"They're about sodomites," Phileas said, hoping to shock Jules into silence.

"Yes," Jules said, obviously uncowed by the blunt terminology. "Just because he chooses not to hide a part of himself. It's ridiculous."

It took all Phileas's force of will to not slam the door closed behind them. "You truly have no sense of self-preservation. I don't know why I didn't realize your complete inability to recognize danger."

Jules's eyes widened.

"I don't mean danger from me, damn it." Phileas turned and stalked down the hall, wishing Passepartout were there, so he could yell at him instead.

Jules followed him like a puppy begging to be kicked. 

Phileas stopped in the drawing room, taking comfort in its orderliness, in the way nothing had changed there in decades. He could hear Jules breathing behind him, waiting for something. Turning, he made up his mind. "Are you a sodomite?" he asked.

That netted him a blink. "And if I am?"

That wasn't what Phileas had expected. "Then I call you unheeding of the danger in such a lifestyle."

"I was so much safer when I chased Angelique?"

Phileas sniffed at the reminder of young woman killed by the phony golem. She'd been unworthy of Jules in any case.

"Oh my god." Jules sat down abruptly on a chair. "Simeon was right."

Phileas glared down his nose. "What in the world are you blathering about?"

"Something he said after you left. He's...you are...I thought it was just me that felt that way." He appeared momentarily at a loss for words, then looked up, his face even more boyish than usual. "You're...attracted to me."

"Nonsense." The response was automatic.

Jules just looked at him, his own feelings plain for anyone to see on that open honest face of his.

"Besides the fact you are, at least the last time I checked, _male_ ," Phileas said, biting each word off precisely, "you're also practically a child. And I certainly have no interest in children."

Jules was about to leap up and deny his youth hotly, but for once he stopped himself. "I'm not a child," he said quietly. "If you're not a...lover of men, then say so, but don't try to distract me."

"This is an extremely improper conversation to be having. And I believe we're done."

Jules sighed. "I didn't intend to ever have this conversation with you. I'm sorry, I won't bother you any longer." Shoulders slumping, he stood and made his way toward the door.

Phileas couldn't shake the feeling that if he let Jules walk out that door, he'd never see him again--and his mind filled with the clear memory of Jules's condition the last time the League had him in their clutches. For a moment, Phileas remembered his own fury and fear at the moment they nearly lost Jules, his body slipping inexorably over a cliff.

"Jules." The name came out seemingly of its own volition.

Jules turned, wordless, with a look that implied he was expecting something unpleasant--a blow, a curse, a threat. Phileas winced at making the younger man fear that from him. Again.

"I've always...restricted my activities to women."

Jules closed his eyes. When he opened them, his face looked drawn, haggard, no longer anything like the young man in Solomon's painting. He nodded sharply, looking more at the floor than Phileas.

"But you're an exception to many rules, Jules Verne."

Jules' head came up slowly.

Each step through some kind of molasses or quicksand, Phileas moved forward, unsure of what he would do when he was done moving.

Jules' eyes were very wide, but he didn't back up, just waited, chest rising and falling rapidly. Phileas stretched a hand out to touch him, feeling the coarse cloth of his suit. Jules lay a hand on top of his, even more gently.

They stood like that for a long moment.

"This is a terrible idea," Phileas said eventually.

"Frightened?" 

"For myself? No. I have protection from Her Majesty, not to mention that dratted Chatsworth. But..."

He didn't have to finish his thought, Jules knew him that well. "I told you I'm a man, not a boy," Jules said. "And I can make my own decisions. Even foolish ones."

"Yes, you can," Phileas said. He moved his hand up to brush across Jules' cheek. "Even foolish ones."

Inexplicably, Phileas felt his own breathing stutter as he leaned toward Jules. But as their lips met, he felt a click, as if the world had settled into its proper alignment.

Maybe it wasn't such a foolish decision after all. 

Distantly, Phileas wondered what Rebecca would think if he bought a few of Solomon's paintings and hung them in the London townhouse...

\--end--

Final notes: I found a great deal of information at Roberto C. Ferrari's Simeon Solomon Research Archive (http://www.simeonsolomon.org/bio.html) and in Richard Canning's article in _Gay & Lesbian Review Worldwide_, "The Naughtiest Victorian" (http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_hb3491/is_6_13/ai_n29301989/pg_1?tag=artBody;col1). Also, you can see a reproduction of "The Bride, Bridegroom and Sad Love" here: http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2vmccxEWU_A/SMQQgRgOh7I/AAAAAAAAAgg/9KRXy0sF4Ck/s1600-h/simeonsolomon.jpg. (Okay, the young man doesn't really look much like Jules, but Phileas isn't exactly rational on the subject.) 

 


End file.
